


Secret Garden

by sorion



Series: Dreamscapes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorion/pseuds/sorion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has accepted his fate. He has also accepted his dreams; they are a welcome respite, and the only time he still sees in colour. (Sequel to my fic Scrooged.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Garden

**Author's Note:**

> The references to the film the story is named after aren't quite as obvious as with the first one. But the references are of course there.

Some people ask you if you dream in colour. Of course John dreams in colour. It’s the waking hours that blur together in a lifeless mass of grey.

Well, not entirely lifeless, obviously; after all, John is alive. He works, eats (when he reminds himself to), sleeps (eagerly) and remembers. He does a lot of the latter.

It’s not too bad a stage he’s at, really. The nightmares of… that day… have mostly stopped, and instead he now has other dreams to accompany his sleeping hours. 

Everyone kept making a fuss about him _wasting_ his life (until the last blog entry, that is; he doesn’t know why anyone would believe that one, though; people probably just wanted to). He doesn’t waste his life. He lives it, honouring Sherlock’s sacrifice to the best of his ability. What did people expect? That he would find someone else again? Another _’best friend’_? As if anybody could ever measure up.

So John doesn’t try. But he also doesn’t give up. That has to count for something, right? He _has_ thought about it – giving up – every now and again, but his memories keep him going. If he were dead, he wouldn’t get to have his memories and his dreams. There is nobody else to have them, and somebody ought to, dammit! Sherlock deserves that. Deserves to be remembered as the best friend that he was. Deserves to be loved.

 

He sometimes smiles to himself, remembering. He doesn’t fight it; people tend to take smiles as a good sign.

He would smile and say, “Fantastic,” when a patient improves, seeing not the patient, but a pleased Sherlock, returning the smile.

He would say, “You do need to eat more. You’re not a robot,” gently admonishing, and he would not see the patient nod demurely, but hear a put-upon sigh and see a roll of crystalline silver-blue eyes in a grey world.

 

At home, he sometimes takes out Sherlock’s violin case. He would never take out the instrument, but merely open the case and run a reverent finger over the material that is still a warm golden-brown. He smiles at that, too.

 

By now, he knows which things make him smile, the ones that are like a small burst of happiness, the ones that carry colour.

 

So when he comes home one day after work, puts down the groceries on the table in the kitchen… and sees a flash of pink, he freezes.

It’s small. Just a post-it note stuck to the table-top. John knows he hasn’t put it there, and he knows that Mrs Hudson isn’t exactly known for using post-its.

Before he can read the words, he recognises the scrawl, and his breath catches and his ears ring with the colour of the blue ink.

_forgive me_

When he remembers to breathe, he has to blink and shake his head to clear his vision. The note is still there, is still pink, still holds the blue ink.

He hears a light rustling to his right from the living room. The soft squeaky sound of someone standing up from a leather seat, the even softer sighing of clothing gliding along a moving body.

John’s stomach clenches. What if he were to turn, now? What would he see? Would he see colour, or…

“John…” The voice is low and rough, as if it hasn’t been used or just hasn’t been used with this much affection in a long time. And the sound flashes in all the colours of a garden in early summer.

John squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden burst of colour. He shakes his head, tightly. “No.”

Halting steps come closer. “I had to, John.”

John breathes in through his nose, harshly. “He wouldn’t have done that to me. No.”

The steps stop.

John imagines he can see the halting expression on Sherlock’s face. The face he sometimes wore when he did something _’a bit not good’_ when he truly didn’t mean to. When he apologised to Molly. When he let John know that he’s only got one friend.

The pause is painfully long.

“I had to,” the vibrant voice repeats. “It was either that or die for real with no way of knowing if you would be safe.”

John’s head turns to the side, as if he wants to shake his head, again, but then then his neck won’t let him complete the motion. He keeps the position with tightly shut eyes and wet lashes. All he would have to do is open the eyes and… “You…” his voice chokes “… complete and utter…” He can’t finish the sentence, can’t call the man anything, not unless he can see what to call him. John opens his eyes, and two tears drop heavily. “ _Bastard_!” he bursts out.

Sherlock just stands, alert, as if he isn’t sure if he has to catch John or keep him from running or…

Before John knows what is happening to him, he has crossed the space between them and punched Sherlock. Then he is kneeling over his fallen friend and holds him by his lapels, is yelling at him. He doesn’t know what he is saying or doing, can’t hear his own words over the roaring in his ears, can’t see Sherlock among the rainbow of emotions clouding his vision.

His throat hurts and his voice breaks when, finally, something slashes through the haze. Red. Bright, strong, blood red.

He chokes on tears he hadn’t known were there and can see the lively red on Sherlock’s lip and pale left cheek.

He sniffs, painfully and rubs his eyes and nose with a sleeve, while the other hand keeps a hold of Sherlock’s jacket. “You bloody idiot!” he bursts out. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows. “I…”

John doesn’t dare to look at Sherlock’s face just yet, just pulls him up and manoeuvres him into his – truly _his, Sherlock’s_ – chair. “Shut up.” He doesn’t know why he asked in the first place. He drags together every shred of professionalism he has ever possessed, kneels in front of the chair and inspects the damage, doing his damndest not to let himself think.

“John, you don’t have to…”

“I said, shut up.” The lip is split and the cheek is already bruising. John’s tears keep flowing, and he keeps sniffing and battling the tears with hands and sleeve. “You… need ice,” he can make himself say.

Sherlock grabs his wrist before he can stand. “I’m fine.”

John pulls back his hand, still refusing direct eye contact. “I said, _shut up_! You… I… just _let_ me!”  
_Let me be useful again. Let me do something for you. Let me know that there is even one thing I can **do**!_  
He turns to escape to the kitchen.

Sherlock stands by him in an instant; he takes hold of both of John’s arms, turns John around, pulls him close and clings to him with everything he feels and has ever felt.

John is sobbing in earnest, now, clawing at Sherlock’s clothes, trying to pull him in in in in. “You bastard. You complete and utter bastard,” he all but wails into Sherlock’s unfamiliar jacket.

Sherlock just holds him tighter. “I know.”

“I hate you so fucking much!”

Sherlock swallows. “I know. I hope you…” he has to stop to clear his throat and swallow, again, struggling to maintain his composure that hasn’t been at its best since the past night. “I hope you don’t mind that I don’t return the sentiment,” he rushes out.

John sobs, again. “I missed you so much, Sherlock.” He has said the name, and he can taste all the colours of his tears on his tongue for his troubles.

“ _That_ I can… I can return,” Sherlock says, and this time, it’s _his_ voice that is breaking. He closes his eyes and tilts his head to lay it on top of John’s, letting two of his own tears escape. “My dear… dear John.”

John’s feelings and thoughts buzz like a nest full of upset wasps. They sting like it, too. Nothing makes sense; there is only the warm and taut body in his arms.  
“How is this possible?” He has to lift his head, has to see… "How are _you_ possible?”

Sherlock’s mouth twists. “Smoke and mirrors. That is all. Just a…” his lips tremble… “just a magic trick. Except for the pain I caused you.”

John draws in a sharp breath, resolutely, and shakes his head again. “Ice,” he insists, and directs Sherlock to sit on a kitchen chair.

“John…” Sherlock tries to protest.

“Now, Sherlock.” John has already turned away and finds a towel and ice to put into it. He returns, sits in front of his friend, staring mostly at the floor, then quickly at the cut lip and cheek, then at the floor, again, unseeing, while he lightly presses the ice against the injuries.  
He has to hold back new tears when Sherlock’s left hand comes up to cup his. He can feel Sherlock’s sorrowful eyes resting on him but continues to evade them, studying the lithe form in front of him, instead.  
“You…” he begins, “… haven’t been taking care of yourself.” He can feel the cheek under his hand shift as Sherlock smiles.

“I had other things to take care of so I could come back.”

John looks up involuntarily at that, and without thinking, his second hand follows his eyes and runs along the side of Sherlock’s (undamaged) skull. Smoke and mirrors…

“Forgive me,” Sherlock whispers, unmoving. “I did not see another way.”

It says a lot, John thinks, that Sherlock admits that he didn’t see another way and doesn’t merely say that there wasn’t one. His hand wanders lower, until it reaches the strong pulse thrumming within Sherlock’s neck. Strong and alive. So very different from the last time, he… No, that’s not right, is it? He hadn’t taken the pulse at Sherlock’s neck, much as he wanted to pull his friend close…  
His hand wanders down Sherlock’s right arm to his wrist.

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

“You stopped the pulse in your right arm.”

“Yes.”

John licks his lips. “And whoever that doctor person was made sure I wouldn’t get to your neck or left wrist.”

Sherlock is silent for a long time. “Forgive me.”

John nods, slowly – just an acknowledgement, not a confirmation. “The ball?” His right hand falls off Sherlock’s cheek, and he lets the detective hold the ice on his own.

“Yes.”

John’s fists clench on his thighs, looking down. “You do not – not _ever_ – do something like that to me, again,” he states roughly, firmly. Terrified.

“John, you must believe me,” rushes out. “If there had been a way, I would have…”

“I _know_!” John interrupts him and finally looks up, directly into the kaleidoscope that is those alien eyes. He breathes. “I know that you think it was the only way. I know what was at stake. We found the recording on your phone.”

“I know.”

John ignores him and keeps talking. “But I don’t care about the stakes. Next time,” he stops, briefly looks to the side and huffs an incredulous and painful laugh. “There had better not be a next time,” he murmurs before looking straight at Sherlock again. “You will trust me, and we will find another way. Together.” He breathes out. “And if you _ever_ insult me by attempting to make me doubt you, again, I will walk out on you. You have… _no_ right to doubt my friendship. Do you understand?”

Sherlock returns the intense look for long moments. “You never doubted me. Not once.” It’s not a question.

John’s eyes water, again. “Then why did you doubt me?”

“I didn’t!” Sherlock’s answer comes quickly, anguished. “I had to risk everything for Moriarty to fall for my scheme, but I would not risk _you_!”

John remembers the recording of that… clashing of minds. “You already knew about everything he told you on that roof, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” a quick, Sherlockian answer to an all too simple question. “I did not want to leave you behind.” His voice shakes. “I didn’t want to go.”

“But you had to either get him to call off his assassins or…”

“Kill himself, yes. Obviously.”

John sniffs, awe and happiness beginning to break through the pain. “Well, there’s that, at least,” he says, staring at Sherlock’s right hand lying limply on a thigh. He reaches for it with both his hands and runs both thumbs over the pulse point. His vision blurs, again, and he lifts the hand to kiss the wrist, two more tears escaping. Then he holds the hand to his chest and raises his head to smile, shakily.

Sherlock looks like he wants to return the smile but isn’t sure he should.

“You’re a bloody miracle, Sherlock Holmes.”

“No,” Sherlock returns, calmly. “As ever, without you conducting my light, I would not have found my way through all this and back to you. I would never have known the extent of your worth, or Lestrade’s, or Mrs Hudson’s.” He holds John’s gaze with his. “I need you.” He unfolds the fingers of his right hand under John’s and lays it flat on John’s chest. “I’ve always needed you.”

John unconsciously runs his thumbs over Sherlock’s hand. “I love you,” John bursts out without thinking. “You’re a bloody madman, but I love you.”

Sherlock blinks. “You’re the first person who could ever make me contemplate the possibility that I might be worthy of such sentiment.”

It’s quiet for several long heartbeats, and John begins to think that this might be the best time for someone to interrupt the moment.  
“I don’t know if I want to kiss you or punch you some more,” he finally says, dazedly.

Sherlock’s lip twitches, amused. “You might want to go with the punches. I would prefer for you to still respect me in the morning.”

John snorts, but he returns the slowly growing smile on Sherlock’s face. Then he rubs his face. “I’m not punching you again, I want to respect myself in the morning, too.” He reaches up to pull away Sherlock’s hand that is still holding the ice. “Let me see.”

Sherlock obliges and keeps his eyes on John’s face as his doctor carefully prods the cut and swelling.

John clears his throat. “Not too bad. It’ll bruise, but you should be okay.” He licks his lips before returns Sherlock’s look again. “Sorry.”

“No need. I expected your reaction.”

John bites his lip. “I shouldn’t have let that happen. I can hardly remember what _did_ happen.” He looks decidedly uncomfortable. “I could have seriously hurt you.”

“No, you couldn’t have. You would never seriously hurt me.”

John is very nearly overcome with the urge to actually go through with the kissing, this time. He restrains himself. He’s heard somewhere that relationships based on intense experiences never work. Or something. And this situation has been a bit too intense, even for a friendship such as theirs.  
“No. I wouldn’t,” he says instead, feeling as if the words are as intimate as a kiss could have been in that moment.

John fancies seeing a look on Sherlock’s face that could be one of just having been kissed.

“Right,” John breaks the silence. “I’m getting you something to eat, and then you’re getting a good night’s sleep. No discussion.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t dare.”

 

He’s home. Sherlock is home.

They eat in silence; explanations and other people can wait until tomorrow.

And once Sherlock gets ready for bed with surprisingly little resistance (only a glimpse at how exhausted he truly is), and John can’t resist the urge to honest-to-god tuck him in, he thinks he might as well give into the other urge… and softly kisses Sherlock’s forehead.

“Get some rest,” he whispers, unwilling to break the air of companionship around them.

“You can stay if you like, John,” Sherlock offers, and once more, John doesn’t think it warrants resistance.

John climbs into the bed next to Sherlock and gets to watch him fall asleep. Safe. Trustful and trusted.

 

When John sleeps, he realises for the first time since Sherlock’s departure how dull the range of colours of his dreams truly is in comparison to Sherlock’s vigour.

 

Some people ask if you dream in colour. John Watson _lives_ in colour.

 

**END**

_120916_

* * *

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**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm playing in this 'verse again ;) Just a bit. There will be a third one in tune with the first two, deepening the relationship.


End file.
